


Questions and Answers

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Infiltrate Interludes [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Drama, Family Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why aren't you in any of these pictures?" Andrew asks absently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Why aren't you in any of these pictures?" Andrew asks absently. 

He asks everything absently, to be honest, his brain always off somewhere the rest of them can't even fathom, never mind reach. Sherlock loves his son but most days he's as bewildered by him as anyone else. He assumes this is how most of the world feels about him, so in its own way it makes him proud.

"What pictures?" Sherlock asks, most of his attention on inspecting Andrew's packing for hidden chemicals or other illegal substances. Sherlock isn't going to find them all, but he can make it a little more difficult for Andrew to terrorize whoever he ends up living with in the dorms.

John could help him, but that would mean being useful instead of wandering the flat aimlessly with a poorly-disguised expression of dismay. Andrew's never been out of his care for more than a week, and after nearly twenty years of marriage Sherlock can tell when John's looking at his children and seeing the people they are versus the infants they used to be. Drop off day at Uni is going to be ugly.

"These ones, they're birthday photos," Andrew says, holding them up with one hand while flipping through a folder he has for reasons only he knows. So far Sherlock's seen the chemical formulas for a pesticide, as well as some sort of velocity theorem and an instability equation, and under it all a nude magazine. "I'm just a baby, look."

"'Just' a monstrously over-sized excuse for an infant, you mean," Sherlock answers. 

Andrew sighs, thrusts the photos out at Sherlock. " _Look _already."__

__They're photos of his first birthday, Andrew covered head to toe in cake, enthusiastically mashing it in his hair. Sherlock hasn't seen these in years, didn't know John had even kept them. "I was away," he answers._ _

__"I know," Andrew says, and Sherlock finally catches on that his son is deliberately not looking at him. "You were declared dead two months earlier. You just disappeared for almost two years." Sherlock doesn't bother asking how he's sorted that one out; he's been hacking into Mycroft's systems since he was thirteen. "Why did you leave?"_ _

__"I didn't have a choice." The words are so similar, the expression he's faced with so carefully nonchalant. It's the ugliest form of _deja vu_ he's felt in a while. "Don't ask your dad," he warns. "It'll just upset him."_ _

__"What doesn't?" Andrew snipes._ _

__Sherlock gives him a sharp look. "I'm serious."_ _

__"I know, _God_."_ _

__Sherlock eyes him. "You already asked him, didn't you?"_ _

__"How was I supposed to know it'd send him round the twist?" Andrew says defensively._ _

__Sherlock rubs his eyes. "Wonderful. You realize those were the worst two years of his life, yes?"_ _

__"I do now."_ _

__"Do now what?" John says from the doorway._ _

__"Nothing," they say simultaneously._ _

__"Okay, now I'm worried," John tells them._ _

__"Worried enough to help pack?" Sherlock asks._ _

__"No Sherlock, I really don't feel the same need to shove him out the door the way you do," John starts, derailed in exactly the way Sherlock expected him to be. The look Sherlock shoots Andrew says 'you owe me', and from the way Andrew winces, he clearly gets the message._ _

__

__._ _

__Sherlock had rather thought the whole matter was settled after that, because once John got a look at the various 'contraband' Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell Andrew off for, it became a whole different discussion. John and Andrew fought only rarely -- it was apparently much more enjoyable to save their attitude for Sherlock -- so the novelty factor in that particular scenario was immense._ _

__"Where did you go?" Andrew asks some time later, from the other side of Sherlock's lab counter._ _

__Sherlock looks up over his glasses in exasperation. "What does it matter?"_ _

__"No reason," Andrew says, working much too hard to affect an air of nonchalance neither of them were buying anyway. Some days he wondered about his son. "I just want to know."_ _

__Sherlock sighs, looks back down at his sample and takes note of its viscosity. "Everywhere."_ _

__"Everywhere," Andrew parrots. "You went everywhere, like Santa Claus."_ _

__"This is your dad, you know that, yes?" Sherlock says, standing up. "You talking nonsense to me."_ _

__Andrew scowls fiercely. He may have unfortunately garnered more of Sherlock's physical features, but as soon as he opened his mouth people knew he was a Watson. At present, Andrew found it more than a little embarrassing._ _

__"Well stop dodging the subject!" Andrew says, leaning over the counter to look at Sherlock's test. "And that's not going to work."_ _

__"I bloody well know it isn't," Sherlock tells him, shoving back from the counter, "and stand up straight." Andrew complies and Sherlock turns to snap his gloves into the bin. "Andrew, there's nothing for you to know. I was gone two years resolving an international threat. It was very dangerous and very difficult. I finished and returned home. The end."_ _

__"Since when do you care about international threats? You argued with Monica all last week about where Belarus was, and Dad says you've been there a half-dozen times and still got it wrong."_ _

__"Like anything else, I care when it becomes relevant."_ _

__Andrew had on an expression like a mule. "I'm going to find out where you were, Papa, you know I will."_ _

__"I wish you the best," Sherlock tells him, and with great regret bins his sample as well. "Just be aware that if you bother Dad with this anymore I guarantee one of your cell lines will go missing."_ _

__"But they're at a very delicate stage and it would take _months_ \--" Andrew grimaces at Sherlock so fiercely Sherlock almost laughs. " _Fine_ ," he snarls, and stalks out of the room._ _

__

__._ _

__“I’ve only ever tried to protect you,” Papa says from the doorway._ _

__Andrew looks up from where he’s sitting on his bed, tries to still his ever-busy hands. His father looks distinctly uncomfortable, which does not bode well for the rest of this conversation. “You have,” he reassures him, hoping that will make him go away._ _

__It doesn’t work. “Your dad could take care of himself, but you were just an infant.” His father tugs at the bottom of his jacket like he’s trying to straighten it, though it wasn’t out of place to begin with. It’s something he’s seen Grandmum do on the very rare occasions when she’s flustered. It makes Andrew incredulous to see his father so thrown by what is really just a simple exploration of the facts, and he immediately knows his father is hiding something._ _

__“While you are not my oldest child you have the distinction of being the first,” his father continues, which is true, and makes Andrew obscurely proud. He holds it over Lucy’s head whenever she’s being more annoying than usual. His father clears his throat. “I wasn’t going to take any chances.”_ _

__The answer is tedious and a half-truth, Andrew just knows it. “How does leaving us alone make us safer?”_ _

__“You weren’t alone,” his papa snaps. “You had your aunt and your uncle, your grandmother. Lestrade, for all the good he does.”_ _

__Andrew frowns at him, because if he’d wanted a bullshit answer he could have pestered his dad and been told something appropriately reassuring and vague days ago. As soon as he thinks it he considers the idea that he’s probably being uncharitable. Well, his dad had been equally as insulting two hours earlier when he’d confiscated all of Andrew’s _technically_ illegal drugs. It wasn’t as though he was going to use them. And if he did, it would have been purely for experimental reasons, because really, the last thing he wanted to do was dull his observational skills during a testing--_ _

__“Feel free to come join us back on earth, Andrew,” his father says, and okay, now Andrew’s into a full out scowl. “I’m not talking about this again so you better start prioritizing. And life at Uni is already loaded with illegal substances and plenty of opportunities for poor decision making, so stop pouting because your dad found your stash.”_ _

__“I wasn’t -- and anyway, this isn’t about me, this is about why you were gone for two years and you never told any of us about any of it!”_ _

__“I told your father.”_ _

__“Well I guess senility has finally kicked in, because you’re failing to notice I’m not him.”_ _

__His father raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, that distinction is becoming less and less obvious every day.”_ _

__“That’s not funny,” Andrew snaps. He loves his dad, really, but his dad is so _safe_ , and _boring_ , and worries about _everything_. _ _

__On paper his dad is an ex-army doctor with at least two years of his service overseas blacked out for security reasons. He’s a crack shot, he’s jumped from buildings and shot out cars windows and beaten up loads of people, and is covered in scars of which he’s explained only about half._ _

__Andrew, though, has only ever seen his dad bringing them to and from school, and complaining about the price of Andrew’s clothes, and how much they all eat, and giving Kaden baths and freaking out over the state of Lucy’s room. He won’t even go in Andrew’s room normally because he says it gives him too much stress. So physical attributes aside, Andrew really fails to see any resemblance. “Papa what exactly did you _do_?” he says, all prurient interest because really, this is _fascinating._ “It must have been something pretty bad if you won’t even talk--”_ _

__“Alright,” his father says, and steps into the room, shutting the door decisively behind him to sit on Andrew’s computer chair. “I tried this John’s way, it didn’t work.” He's talking almost to himself at first but then turns all his attention on Andrew. “If you go looking for those files you’ll find them. I know you will. Mycroft did the best he could but he wasn’t expecting someone as -- _persistent_ \-- as you to go searching almost twenty years later. If you want the information, you’ll get it.” His father looks so serious for once Andrew’s brain is largely focused on just one thing. “And you’ll regret it. Because you’re right; I did things that were not good. Not even a little bit.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because it wasn’t about doing what was _right_ and _good_ , it was about doing what I had to.” His father has a look on his face that’s entirely unknown; Andrew files it away for further study even as he tries not to flinch back from its intensity. _ _

__“What do you mean?” he asks, embarrassed and annoyed when he sounds like nothing more than a stupid _kid.__ _

__His father sighs, and his face shifts into someone Andrew recognizes, someone mildly exasperated at best. “It means you’re only seventeen. Just be a teenager for a while. The information is never really gone, is it?”_ _

__Andrew shakes his head slightly and his father rubs at his eye with one finger. “There are more relevant things for you to worry about right now, yes?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Andrew says, scratching at the back of his head._ _

__His father sighs and stands up. “Get some rest,” he tells Andrew, patting him on the shoulder. “The countdown’s on, and if your dad’s attitude right now is any indication, tomorrow is going to be a very, very long day.”_ _

__Andrew groans and drops his head in defeat, the sound muffled by the opening and closing of his door._ _

__He gets up, goes to the landing of the stairs. “Papa!”_ _

__“What?” he hears from around the kitchen._ _

__“I need to go to the store,” he hollers down._ _

__“Now?”_ _

__“I won’t have time to replace the liquid nitrogen tomorrow.”_ _

__“ _Andrew David William_ \--” His father starts. Andrew smiles._ _


	2. Chapter 2

John's peeling potatoes when he hears the door downstairs, and the familiar tread of huge bloody feet on the staircase. He looks up when Andrew comes in, messy hair peppered with snowflakes and clothes wrinkled from the drive into London. "There you are," he says, wiping his hands and unhooking his cane from the cooker handle. "Laundry?"

"Yeah," Andrew replies -- that he's sheepish about it pleases John in some quiet way, and shows him more than the shirt tight in the shoulders, the trousers a hair short in the leg, that his son is on his way to becoming a man.

John claps him on the shoulder, pulls him in for a tight hug. "Your father is on his way home, should be in soon. Put your things down and give your da some help."

Andrew does, already talking a mile a minute. John can't help but remember so many years spent just like this, only then he'd been looking down at a tow headed little boy and slipping him tomato slices, not up at a giant of a lad, who was biting into a tomato like it was an apple. Cambridge has been good for him, John knows -- sharpened parts of him, wore others away. So like Sherlock, in so many ways.

Andrew eventually peters out, the excitement for his work and classes -- astrophysics, and wouldn't Sherlock simply love that -- giving way to comfortable silence. Andrew's got something on his mind, has since he'd called the week before to tell them he'd be home for a few days. John, though, has had twenty some odd years of Holmes men, and he waits patiently, turning the boil on to get the stew going, putting the bread in the oven.

There's a squeal from downstairs and Kaden comes bursting through the door, shrieking and throwing himself at Andrew. Monica and Sherlock follow, bringing the street in with them, snow and coats and mittens, Kaden who hadn't taken his boots off in all the excitement. John meets Sherlock's eye over the children, smiles when Sherlock rolls his eyes and heaves Kaden off of his brother to give him a hug too.

"We're just waiting on Lucy," John says. "Go get your clothes changed, Kaden -- Monica, you'd better not come to the table without showering."

"Daaa- _ad_ ," Monica mumbles, and throws her dance bag into the hall closet, stomping up the steps.

After that it's the excitement of getting the table set, and Kaden talking a mile a minute about all the things he was doing in school and showing Andrew the Lego city he'd been building in the old playroom, and John and Sherlock kissing in the kitchen until Monica came in and said, "Papa, gross!", and then _Lucy_. 

On her arrival the house sounds _alive_ again, and John doesn't remember it being this bloody _loud_ , all the kids talking at once, and Gladstone barking and running in circles, and Mrs. Hudson coming up to see them all. Dinner is an entire affair, John's homemade stew and bread, and the cake Mrs. Hudson had brought with her, and then talking and laughter and the kids trying to disperse until John wrangles them all back to help clean up the bloody mess.

It's near ten by the time Sherlock gets Kaden to bed, and the girls settled in, and Mrs. Hudson toddled off back downstairs. Then, and only then, is the house once again mercifully quiet, and then, only then, does Andrew finally reemerge, in socks and jim-jams and the same pensive expression he'd worn earlier in the day.

Sherlock's slumped, asleep in his favorite chair, so John makes them both tea and, settled at the kitchen table, asks, "Want to tell me what's on your mind?"

Andrew shifts, thoughtful, weary. "Before I left for school. I. I'd been looking at things."

"Your father told me."

"What?" He blows out a breath. "Papa told you?"

"Papa tells me everything, love. I'm surprised it took you this long to ask me about it."

He wasn't though, not really. His son tried very hard to follow in Sherlock's footsteps -- brilliant, aloof, formal. He could never quite manage it. The Watson in him, John supposes, with all the messy emotions to go with it.

Andrew scrapes his fingers back through his hair. "Papa told me he had to leave. That he wasn't back until I was three. But I found documents, Dad."

John turns his spoon in his tea. "Mmm."

"Papa... he was." Andrew swallows. "Dad, maybe we shouldn't--"

"Your father was dead," John says.

Andrew shudders, once, as if he can't help it. He's practically vibrating with curiosity. Still so young, his Andrew. Hasn't quite learned that some information wasn't worth knowing. "What _happened_? Papa told me as much as he thought I should know, but--"

"It wasn't enough. Not if you're asking me now."

Andrew looks so sincere, and so earnest, and really it was a part of his past -- he had lived it, too, after all. John looks at him, thoughtful. "Do you really want to know?"

It's a useless question, he can see Andrew does. John frowns for a moment, down into his tea. "Andrew, you know about Moriarty. I know your father gave you the notes I took about the case."

Andrew nods. "Sociopath. Brilliant as Papa. You called him a 'consulting criminal'."

"We got rid of him, Papa and I. But what we simply hadn't planned for was Moriarty's compatriots, those that he had partnered with in business, to come after us. Your father thought that the only way to protect us was to stage his death and disappear."

"Why would he do that?"

"They threatened your father. To kill you, not even a year old, and me, and Mycroft, and Grandmummy. Everyone he loved. We'd struggled to have you, Andrew, and you were the most precious thing in our lives. He loved you so much that he did what he had to do to keep you safe."

He watches Andrew take that in, thoughtful, sipping his tea. "Dad," he says, eventually. "Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

"It was hard, Andrew. It isn't a time I like to remember."

"I was just a baby."

"And I'd just lost my husband. I found myself a widower, with a son to raise on my own. Not six months before I had cut my mother completely out of my life. Your Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara were in New York just starting the catering business. I had your Uncle Mycroft, and I'll never be finished thanking him for all the help he gave us. But for most of the time I was alone -- just you and me." He reaches out and squeezes Andrew's neck gently. "I think I did alright. You were a fat little thing, Christ, and happy as a clam. Ran me ragged, you did."

Andrew smiles, just a fraction, but when he looks up under his fringe, John can't help but be heartbroken at the expression in his eyes. "There aren't really any pictures of me, from when I was little. Just a few, and never with you, or with Papa. Only me by myself." He shifts, uncomfortable. "I thought -- for a long time, I thought--"

"What?"

"I just wish you'd told me about this sooner. I used to think maybe you didn't -- that you didn't really want me. Because there weren't pictures, because you never wanted to talk about when I was little. That's why I started digging around, to see if maybe there was a reason."

It's a knife, right to John's heart, but he can tell his son is speaking the words not as a man, but as the little boy he was. "You don't really believe that your Papa and I didn't want you."

Andrew rubs his head. "Well, no. It was just a thought I had sometimes. I guess I was jealous, because you have a million pictures of Kaden when he was a baby."

John knows that there's simply no possible way he can let his child go back to Cambridge after his holiday with that thought in his heart. "For you and me it was a bit different," John answers, and stands with a creak of joints. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Andrew asks, standing himself.

"Hush now, don't wake your father."

The basement office is locked -- really, Sherlock's paranoia has gotten worse in his old age, people weren't _always_ out to get them. The desk is a mess, piled high with the Peterson case files, and the storage closet is also locked. Inside are old case files, and where John kept the gear he'd brought home from Afghanistan, and all of the children's school work and projects. In the back, marked simply by date, is the box John had last looked at fifteen years ago, the box he'd put out of his mind, the box he'd taped shut and never expected to open again.

He pulls it out, now, and sits right there on the floor. Andrew joins him, curious and beautiful and so like his father. John lets him open it.

"They're picture albums," Andrew says, surprised. He pulls one out, the blue fabric gone dark with age.

"Yes," John says simply. "I didn't want you to forget your papa, even though you hadn't ever known him."

Understanding dawns on Andrew's face, and he opens the album, staring down at the first picture. It's Sherlock, holding Andrew like he's never seen anything so astonishing, so wonderful, so _perfect_ , the day of his birth. 

"I don't know how I forgot about these. At the time they seemed the most important thing in the world. It scared me so badly, that you should never know your father." John smiles. "He was the first one to want you, did you know that?" Andrew blinks, shakes his head. "It isn't like it is now, back then. Two men getting married, that was a serious thing. Something people looked down on. I never thought children would ever be a possibility for us."

He watches Andrew turn the page, watches as he takes in Sherlock as a child -- photos that Adella had mailed him -- then a teenager, always so surly and cross, then finally the young man John had met, with that shock of dark curly hair not yet gone gray at the temple. "He was so beautiful. I was never one to think of blokes as beautiful, but he simply took my breath away, right from the start. We were a good team. Still are."

"When did he come back?" Andrew asks. He sees something in John's face, because he waves a hand. "The death certificate didn't get voided until I was almost in school. I know he came back before then, though -- I can remember him."

"Mmm," John replies, thoughtful. "You were about three, I think. You and I had gone to stay with your uncle for a bit -- it was before Arthur, back when he and Aunt Mahdavi were still trying to have a baby. She was very depressed, you see, and your Uncle thought a bit of life in the house would help her. Course, I doubt he could have predicted you, love." John's smile fades slowly. "He just came in one day. Hair all cut to hell, face bruised and busted up. He'd aged at least ten years. I remember he was holding you, and you kept saying 'papa, papa', like you did when we looked at the photo albums."

It hurts to talk about, to remember that time and the way he'd lived. Andrew is staring at him as if he's never met him before. "Were you angry?"

"Furious," John says, and laughs despite himself. "That was when we started using the Swear Jar."

"Seriously, Dad."

"Of course I was angry, love. Anyone would be."

"Why... why did you stay? Why didn't you get remarried or something, especially when you thought he was dead?"

John looks down at the album open in Andrew's lap, at a snapshot Geoff had taken, Sherlock with Andrew, gargantuan infant that he'd been, strapped to his chest, crouched on the ground with his pocket magnifier. "Because I loved him," he says simply. "There has never been anyone else for me but your Papa, Andrew."

Andrew's brow is furrowed, thoughtful, and John smiles, leans over to kiss his head. "Lock up when you're through."

He gets up with a bit of a struggle and his cane, and when he finally, finally gets back upstairs it's to Sherlock, looking at him from across the living room. John walks over to him, and leans down, and kisses him softly. "Bed?"

Sherlock glances at the door, then at John. He doesn't ask, and John doesn't tell him. It would be Andrew's time to ask questions, to know. "Bed," he answers, and climbs to his feet.


	3. Chapter 3

Geoff stops off at 221B on his way to work, determined to catch his godchildren before they jet off back to parts unknown.

The house is in chaos – he can hear the noise before he even gets to the stairs. When he lets himself in he first sees Kaden sitting on the living room floor wearing one trainer, shorts, a zipped up parka and his hat, reenacting some kind of epic battle with his army of action figures. Then Monica streaks by, calling hello to Geoff without a second thought as she almost careens into the kitchen table and sits, wolfing down her oatmeal.

There’s a thud upstairs, and then another, and then a series of them, which no one seems to notice or care about; laundry is going, the dishwasher is going, pop music is drifting out from the loo, and the TV is on and blaring a frankly hideous medical documentary. When John appears from his bedroom he’s rumpled but happy, at ease, and his limp is barely noticeable. “Good morning,” he says to Geoff, surprised. “New case?”

“Just saying hello to the kids before they take off again,” Geoff answers, smiling.

“Oh, well you’re just in time, then,” John says, before hollering up the stairs, “Food!” He catches sight of Kaden and blanches. “This is not dressed, young man. Where’s your Papa?”

Another thud. “That’s him,” Kaden says, not looking up from where one action figure is karate chopping another. John rolls his eyes and goes to herd his son into his room, Kaden protesting every step of the way.

It’s only luck Geoff manages to see Lucy before she flies back out the door, the gorgeous girl, a human whirlwind of energy and adventure. She shrieks in happy surprise when she sees Geoff, hugs him tight and rattles off a series of stories about where she’s been, what she’s been doing, where she’s going to go. It’s amazing how like Sherlock she is, the strange mix of practical determination and absurd theatrics, the imperious expression and unexpected vulnerability. John hollers for her to eat from Kaden’s room but she answers “I’ll eat with Parker and Mel!” and takes off, hugging Geoff again before she goes. 

Andrew stumbles down the steps as Lucy slams the front door, nearly crashing into Monica as she heads back up to her room. When they untangle themselves Andrew sees Geoff and his face breaks into a wide, guileless smile that is all Watson. Geoff grins back and drags his godson down into what is nearly a half-nelson, just to make him laugh and halfheartedly try to shake Geoff off. When Geoff finally lets him go the giant string-bean stands up, rubbing at the back of his head. “You came by to see me?”

“Of course – got to make sure you’re in one piece, and not banned from the dorms yet.”  
Andrew gives him a mock-aggravated look – he's always trying to look like Sherlock but no one’s had the heart to tell him he’s far too sweet to ever pull it off.

Funny, that. He's much more a mix of both his parents, and perhaps his Uncle. His longstanding adoration of Geoff was certainly not in keeping with Sherlock's personality. When he was little he had a radar on Geoff, could track him down like a bloodhound no matter where he was in the station. His coworkers found it hilarious; Geoff found it almost painfully endearing, no matter what cracks he'd make to the others. He has no idea what the appeal was or remains to be, but truth is he adores the not-so-little sprog no matter what the reason. “I’ll have you know I’ve only been in the Dean’s office twice so far.”

“That’s a record,” Geoff says approvingly. A particularly loud thump makes them both look up, but nothing actually comes through the ceiling; Kaden however chooses that moment to run by them, now with two trainers and his trousers on but no hat, parka, or shirt. He is, however, wearing his mittens. “Dammit, Kaden!” John calls; Monica comes back into the room and without missing a beat yells, “Swear jar!”

“What are your plans for the rest of your holiday?” Geoff asks, deliberately ignoring the chaos.

Andrew makes to shrug but pauses halfway through, like something’s just occurred to him. “I – are you busy later?”

“That depends entirely on what you need me for,” Geoff answers, mock-serious.

“Just to answer a few questions. I – there are. Things. I—”

Monica interrupts their conversation with a yelled, “Dad, I’m going to be late!” and John stalks back into the room; Sherlock comes barreling down the stairs at the same time.

“ _Sherlock_ —” John starts, but Sherlock just flings the front door open and starts down the steps, calling behind him, “Busy!”

Geoff crooks a smile at Andrew. “Yeah, swing by round two, if I can help I will.”

Andrew smiles in relief, though there’s something behind his eyes that makes Geoff think this is not a simple police-procedure question. “Thanks, Uncle Geoff.”

 _Oh_ , Geoff thinks. _It’s going to be one of those conversations._


	4. Chapter 4

“Papa,” Andrew says from the doorway. 

“Busy, Andrew,” Sherlock answers, rifling through the Peterson files. Upstairs the front door opens and shuts, signaling John’s arrival home with -- going by the stomping -- Monica. And they’d thought Lucy was a moody teenager. 

“But Papa--”

“Not now, Andrew,” Sherlock repeats. 

“But--”

“ _Andrew_ ,” Sherlock says, turning his son’s name into a command. He still doesn’t look up, trying to sort through the data. There’s got to be some reason the dates all coincide--

“How many times have I almost died because of you?” 

Sherlock turns his head sharply, feeling not unlike he’s been sucker punched by his own child. “ _What?_ ”

Andrew has his hands by his sides, shuffles a bit, awkward but determined. “How many times did someone threaten to kill me because of something you were involved in?” He’s speaking in French, which means he doesn’t want John to hear, which means he knows he’s treading on very thin ice indeed. 

“Your father didn’t show you those pictures with this in mind,” Sherlock answers in kind, still trying to regain his footing. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

“You had to pretend to be dead, for _years_ , Papa, years and years you left us alone because someone out there was crazy enough to kill -- to kill _me_ , and I was just a _baby_ ; and there the kidnapping a few years ago, and that other guy a few years before that, and how many other times were there that we didn’t even know about--”

“This is a useless conversation,” Sherlock says sharply, interrupting Andrew’s increasingly agitated French diatribe -- his voice has risen enough in pitch that it’s only a matter of time before John comes down to investigate. “There’s nothing good that would come from this line of inquiry.”

“It’s my life,” Andrew snaps. “I have a right to know.” 

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” Sherlock corrects him. “Just because you’ve gotten bits and pieces from your dad, from Lestrade, -- oh, it’s obvious you stopped by the MET this afternoon, stop looking so surprised -- even from me, you think you have the bigger picture, but you’re still so incredibly uninformed.” Andrew looks at him with his giant, wide eyes, John’s eyes, scared and confused and so, so accusatory. Sherlock gets that punched feeling again, this time square in his chest. He can’t help it; his first response to pain has always been anger. “And you’re alive, aren’t you? In good health? Well-cared for?” 

“That’s not the _point_ , Papa, you’ve been doing this kind of work my whole life, putting everyone in danger, I could have _died_ \--”

“ _No you could not have_ ,” Sherlock bellows, his temper getting the best of him. “I would not have let that happen.” 

“ _You practically engineered it!_ ” Andrew yells back. 

There’s a brief moment when the punched feeling sharpens into something like a stab; he clamps down on it brutally. “Out.” 

“No, I’m--”

“ _Out_ , Andrew. _Now_.” 

Andrew finally seems to register Sherlock’s tone, turning to run to his room when John calls from the top of the stairs, the English words almost startling, “What the hell is going on?” 

 

.

There isn’t an answer -- not that John expects one, not really, not by the look of the two men too busy glaring daggers at one another to glance up at him, furious and frustrated and wounded in turn. 

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” he reiterates sharply, already irritated to be coming down the steps unnecessarily, and now doubly so by the fact that neither husband nor child are even deigning to look at him. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

“This doesn’t concern you, John,” Sherlock replies, and turns away from Andrew first. John can see the hurt all over him. 

He turns to look at Andrew with disbelief. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” Andrew snaps, and then, off of John’s look, he backs down with a quieter, “Nothing, Dad.

“It’s obviously something, what with the two of you looking like the grim reaper,” John replies. He feels little eyes between his shoulder blades and closes the office door behind him. 

Andrew’s arms are crossed over his chest, defensive and utterly mulish, and Sherlock has his back turned, tense all along that long, skinny frame. John touches his shoulder gently, frowns even more when Sherlock’s muscles jerk, tiny and helpless, under his hand. 

“Your son,” Sherlock spits out, “is a boy trying on a man’s shoes.”

Andrew vibrates with anger and John says, “Alright, that’s _enough_ , both of you.”

In actuality, John is both surprised and utterly out of his depth. There’ve always been rows around the house, what with four children who all had such vivid personalities, but nothing like this -- nothing so serious. There is simply no choice but to resolve it, _none_ , because John’s seen firsthand what happens to festering wounds. 

Andrew is a strong boy, a self-assured boy, but he is a boy, and John is his father. All it takes is ten seconds of the look John had perfected on trembling privates in Her Majesty’s army and Andrew is snarling under his breath, turning to glare at the opposite wall. “I just asked Papa why he does this, _all of this_ , even when it puts us all in danger. This stupid consulting business! You aren’t even a real policeman.”

Sherlock whirls around but John reaches out, catches his hand and squeezes before he can speak. “Andrew,” John answers quietly. “This ‘stupid consulting business’ has kept food on the table and a roof over your head.”

“No, Papa being an Earl has done that. I know some months you didn’t even make money doing this.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have sent him to Cambridge,” Sherlock snarls at him, furious. “I told you it would rot his mind.”

“That’s unfair, Sherlock,” John replies. “Not when you can see as easily as I can that Andrew’s scared.”

And he is, _obvious_ \-- the way he’s holding himself, the tense line of his back, his rigid shoulders. He’d been hiding it from them, had tricked them both, but then of course neither of them had ever had a reason to look for it. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, trailing across Andrew’s frame. “Has someone hurt you?” he asks.

“No, of course not,” Andrew scoffs. “But that’s exactly what I mean -- you’ve proven my point, Papa. Why are you doing this,” he waves a hand around the office, “if it’s so dangerous? Why didn’t you stop when you had to _fake your own death_? You almost lost Dad, you almost lost me! And not just once, but over and over through the years.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and tries to physically drag in some of his oft-referenced patience (or stubbornness, depending on who was describing it). "Andrew," he says slowly, as if his child is actually still the toddler he's acting like, "I have a unique skill set I've spent a great deal of time and energy developing. This--" he gestures to the room at large, the papers strewn everywhere, the skull that has migrated down here as a makeshift paperweight -- "is what I'm good at."

"You're brilliant, you could do anything," Andrew answers immediately, shifting back between antagonism and deference so fast it's making Sherlock seasick.

Sherlock makes a face. "That's like telling you to go become an interpreter just because you speak four languages."

"Five," Andrew corrects immediately.

"You do not _speak_ dead languages, Andrew, they don't count."

"Okay, okay, let's get back on track here." John says, corralling them. He's still trying to catch up, to sort out the cause of all this -- it's not often Sherlock's arguing with someone in their family whose name is not Lucille. "Do you understand what your father's saying, Andrew?"

"No." Andrew answers, mulish. "It's not the same thing at all. My interests don't hurt anyone else."

"Alright, let's get a few things straight." John says, fast and stern. "First of all, your father and I have always worked _together_ , so you can stop trying to pin it all on him. And second of all, your father has _never_ in his life hurt you and he never will." 

This last he makes into an order, and there's absolutely no give in his tone at all. Sherlock's not even sure Andrew's ever had it directed at him before -- he's never been as daring as his sisters when it came to parental defiance. And while Sherlock doesn't _need_ John to defend him, since Andrew doesn't seem interested in hearing anything Sherlock has to say he appreciates the gesture anyway.

"You would just be a doctor if it wasn't for him!" Andrew protests, hands waving wildly at Sherlock. He makes it seem like Sherlock's spent the last twenty years dragging John into one sordid torture and near-death experience after another. It would be amusing if his son wasn't making him sound like the worst thing that has ever happened to his family. "Before we were even born you almost died, Moriarty almost killed you both!"

"For heaven's sake, more than half my cases end in someone's life being _saved_ , you ridiculous child," Sherlock snaps.

His son, tall enough to look him in the eye, makes two rapid steps forward. "And if your family gets hurt along the way, well, that's all to the good, right? So long as you _win_?"

"I disappeared for _two years_ for you!" Sherlock yells back, suddenly hoarse -- his son the only person in the room, in the house, in the whole bloody fucking world. "Do you think that was for my health? For _fun_? You think I came out of that thinking I'd won _a goddamn thing?_ "

This is quite suddenly the last straw and he swerves around, stacking files and slamming them together. Perhaps he can crack the sudden shiver out of his fingers if he only tries hard enough. _Out, he needs to get out._

 

.

Sherlock leaves, arms full of files and coat over his arm. A minute later John hears the front door slam, and closes his eyes tightly, willing himself to calm down, because his first instinct is to yell and shout. That, however, has never worked with Andrew. Neither has bargaining, threats, or bribes.

But John knows his son, right down to the marrow, and he pulls out the one thing he never uses, if only because he can’t stand the way it makes Andrew look. In this case, there’s simply no other choice. 

He stands, meets his son’s eyes square on. “I’m disappointed in you.”

Andrew’s face screws up with indignation, and anger, and worse, much worse, a stab of hurt. “So you’re just going to take his side?”

“There aren’t ‘sides’, Andrew. You’re being criminally short sighted right now, which to be frank is surprising coming from a young man as intelligent as you. _Think_ , as your father would say. Your research is half-arsed at best, fueled by the emotions and memories of a child’s point of view.”

There’s the wounded pride, the anger, but John cuts him off before he can say more. “Your father’s going to be working for the rest of the day. I suggest you use that time to do something productive, like get your facts straight.”

Behind the desk is a bookshelf with all the case notes John’s taken over the years. They’d learned, after that first, fateful blog entry, not to chance anything on the computer, and so all of John’s notes are painstakingly handwritten and catalogued. They also, until now, have been strictly off limits to the children. It’s behind glass, and only John, Sherlock, and Geoff have a key. John takes his off his keychain, sets it in Andrew’s hand.

John turns and walks out, and pretends not to hear Andrew’s sharp and bitter curse.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s near to midnight when Sherlock quietly ascends the stairs to the flat, toeing off his shoes, putting up his coat. The house is calm, the various creaks and rattles of an old building the only noise. The clanking of the pipes hides his entrance, and he steps towards the hallway, intent on moving up to the lab.

"You weren't planning to hide away all night as well, were you?"

Sherlock sighs. "I do have a case to solve, whatever degree of importance our son might place on it."

John smiles, a small tilt to his mouth. He’s in his dressing gown, and slippers, and the cane has made an appearance again. He hates the way Sherlock’s eyes go dark when he sees it, but the cold has gotten to him today, worse than it has in a long time.

He strokes Sherlock’s face, raspy with bristles, gently thumbs the swell of his lower lip; intimate, gentle. “Hungry?” he asks. “Or some tea?”

Sherlock breathes in slowly, closes his eyes for a moment to focus on the feel of John's thumb against his mouth, his fingers on Sherlock's face. John's hand is wondrously steady, calm and warm. "Work," he mumbles, pulling his eyes open again.

John frowns. "This is a fraud case; what could you need to do in your lab?"

Sherlock pulls back until John's hand falls. "I do have long-standing experiments that need tending--"

"Sherlock." John is giving him that patient, understanding look Sherlock has come to view cautiously; it means John isn't going to let him get away with whatever it is he thinks Sherlock's trying to sneak around him. "I'm sure it can wait."

"It's amazing how well you know this despite having not a clue what any of those experiments entail," Sherlock snipes, though it is too tired to be appropriately provocative.

John smiles at him, though it is slightly sad. "You know he doesn't understand what he's talking about."

Fine, they were talking about this, then. "You don't get it," Sherlock says blankly. "He's not saying anything I haven't debated a hundred times over."

The topic is, after all these years, still a touchy one. John forgave Sherlock a long time ago, and eventually learned to forgive himself. Their marriage is stronger for having gone through it, because they came out the other end an impenetrable, united front as strong as steel. They were a team, the two of them.

Sometimes, though, John forgot how sensitive Sherlock could be -- how deeply his feelings ran, and how easy it was to hurt them. The curse of such a fine and brilliant mind, to be forever doubting, forever extrapolating dozens of outcomes.

John loves him so much sometimes that the feeling, as it is now, fills him to overflowing. He takes Sherlock’s hand and tugs him into the kitchen, gently insisting.

There’s a teacup and book on the table; Sherlock arches a brow and John snorts as he pulls a second cup from the cabinet, pours water from the kettle. “Couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about Andrew.”

Sherlock sighs, explosive and frustrated, and dumps the case file on the table. That he’s carrying it around amuses John in a quiet way, because he’s never done it before. That, more than anything, is a sure sign of his distress.

He sets the tea down by Sherlock’s elbow -- two sugars, just as he’s always taken it -- and a cold sandwich he’d kept in the fridge for him. “Eat,” he says.

They sit together, and John is reminded suddenly of a time not so long ago, when they’d been together downstairs at the chip shop having breakfast and waiting for the pink phone to ring. Not so much has changed, and yet _everything_ has changed.

“How funny,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“You. And me, I suppose.”

Sherlock glances up. “You’re maudlin tonight.”

“And you’re rude. Eat your sandwich, so I can sit here and look at you and forget what you sound like when you open your mouth.”

Sherlock glares, mortally offended, and John grins and rubs his foot gently along Sherlock’s ankle under the table.

They settle into the comfortable silence of a long marriage, the kind John remembers his own parents settling into, back when things had been good. They don’t have to talk to know exactly what the other is thinking; barely have to look at one another to understand how the other is feeling. John likes this easy comfort of family in a way he’d never expected to.

“Which makes the fact that we run around chasing bad guys that much more exciting.”

“No, that’s because you’re an adrenaline junkie,” Sherlock says, stepping into the conversation as if they’ve been talking for the last twenty minutes.

“Hardly,” John says with a snort. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

“He’s right, John.”

“He isn’t,” John replies. “He has no idea what he’s talking about. University has opened up a world he didn’t realize was there, and he’s trying to reorder things in a way he can understand.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem intent to listen. “What we've done, the work we've chosen, has put our children in danger.”

His first instinct is to say ‘no’, but Sherlock deserves more than that. John thinks on the question for a moment. “I think...in the grand scheme of things, there may have been times when the children were in more danger than normal. But I also think that’s true of most families. Our work almost never has anything to do with our children. Think back on the last few cases you’ve taken, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns into his tea. “The case with the school teacher and the computers.”

“Yes.”

“That French duke’s second cousin, Lady Margette. The missing diamonds. That rubbish about the red headed league, and then following that the business with Reginald Musgrave and the missing papers.”

John snorts. “Three days in Sussex with you sick as a dog is not something I care to repeat.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

“You wore a _blanket_ , you bloody drama queen.”

“I was drowning in my own mucus and lethargy,” Sherlock says imperiously.

“You’re making my point for me,” John replies.

Sherlock huffs and deliberately does not verbally respond, feeling quite put-upon. “That entire case was really quite unpleasant so what, exactly, are you trying to prove by bringing it up again?”

John makes a face that could easily be mistaken for severe by someone who didn’t know him. Sherlock recognizes it for the mix of amusement and exasperation it really is. “The kids weren’t hurt, they weren’t even bothered by their sick and miserable grump of a father, and frankly that’s the bigger surprise.”

Sherlock’s considers explaining the crux of the issue to John, whether it will be worth the effort. In certain domains the years have done nothing set them even more in their routines, their ways, and as hardheaded as they can both be there are times they will inevitably misunderstand each other. Sherlock has, for example, given up trying to convince John to take better care of his ailing body, because it’s obvious in regards to that topic the man is a stupid, stubborn mule.

“I can feel you mentally insulting me, you know.”

“I’m well aware I’m glaring, I don’t need you to waste my time pointing it out.” He continues to scowl furiously at his uneaten sandwich -- which will stay that way, thank you very much, these days his body already takes up too much precedence during case time as it is -- and continues debating. He’s not even sure what exactly he’s trying to say.

He knows the danger they put the children into by proximity is comparable to some politicians, most well-known social personalities, and athletes. Were that the extent of it he would have better been able to manage Andrew’s furious comments, decrying Sherlock as some kind of walking plague of death. Really, so much of John’s absurd theatrics have sunk in with that child, it’s sheer luck he didn’t take to the stage like his sister just to spite Sherlock for the cardinal sin of actually being invested in their futures and wanting to make sure they found meaningful employment--

“And now we’re onto the one-of-a-kind Lucy frown -- how did we get there again?”

“Andrew is more perceptive than either of us give him credit for. He may not be naturally gifted at reading people the way Lucy is, but he understands -- John, you could have given this up if it was necessary.” John frowns sharply at him, but Sherlock presses on. “You could have found value in employing your skills to different practice. I, on the other hand...” He thinks hard, but as always when it comes to this topic, he finds himself empty handed. “I don’t believe that I could. Not even if it was the right choice.”

He looks up to where John is evaluating him, red veins trailing through the whites of his eyes, face scruffy, something about the look of him soft and so inviting. His edges have worn away as much as Sherlock's over the years -- he has stopped second guessing himself, his own opinions and observations, has instead grown to display a cool confidence in all things that sets Sherlock's libido thumping like the sound of heavy bass in his bones. “That has to fall firmly on the side of Not Good Parenting.” 

"That's not true."

John looks up, startled, and there in the shadow of the kitchen door is Andrew. They've both been so intent on each other they didn't hear him.

His son's eyes are rimmed red, his face pulled tight with distress. John is abruptly reminded of his son at four, standing over the shattered remains of Sherlock's antique magnifying glass, chin wobbling so hard he couldn't even speak. His expression when he'd seen Sherlock's face had broken both their hearts, and that he looks just the same now isn't lost on him. He can see the desperation to be forgiven as if Andrew had shouted it.

Sherlock doesn't say a word, and Andrew takes a step into the kitchen. His pajamas are rumpled, his hair sticking up in tufts. He looks thoroughly pitiful and John is at once horrified and almost glad for it, to see Andrew humble. He pushes the seat out next to him, and Andrew drops into it as if the weight of the world is sitting firmly on his shoulders, dragging him down.

He can't quite look at Sherlock, staring at his hands on the table as if they hold the secrets of the universe. Sherlock, John knows, hates it when their children find it hard to speak to him, but that's what John is for. "What's not true, love?" he asks, pushing his half-empty cup of tea over to him.

"About... about not being good parents." He looks up, under his fringe. "You are. You both are. I'm sorry if I... I'm just sorry. I didn't mean for my holiday home to be... this."

" _Vous avez certainement destiné à soulever cette_ ," Sherlock replies sharply.

Andrew flinches and John says, " _Sherlock_."

"I asked you not to bring this up," Sherlock says. "I told you before you left that nothing good would come from it. Instead that was all you intended to do, the first thing on your mind. You went behind my back -- behind your father's back -- instead of asking either of us for the facts."

"Because you wouldn't _tell me_ ," Andrew replies back, eyes suddenly wet. "You wouldn't tell me anything!"

"You're just a child."

"I'm not," Andrew snarls, low so as to not wake the children. "I'm not a kid anymore, I'm eighteen years old!"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, and cuts himself off -- not with anger, but with the most curious expression of surprise on his face. He stares at Andrew for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time. "So you are," he replies, after a moment. "And because you are, I will tell you what I'd tell any other adult -- you've approached this entire affair with the sort of bumbling, ham-handed oafishness I expect out of people with a quarter of your intellect."

Andrew's eyes narrow, jaw tightening. John steps in, before Andrew can blurt out the first think that comes to his mind. "You're old enough now to understand," he says, squeezing his son's shoulder. "Old enough to understand that your Papa is just a person, and so am I. We did the best by you and the children, the very best we could. We gave from ourselves to make your lives better, in a thousand ways, because we love you and your brother and sisters with all our hearts. But we _are_ people, Andrew. Just like your studies fulfill you, and give you a sense of meaning, so does your Papa's work."

"I don't care about that," Andrew mumbles, staring at the table again.

John meets Sherlock's eyes over his son's head, smiles just slightly when he sees the rolled eyes. Pigheaded, so utterly pigheaded. "You mean to ask him to give it up, then?"

"No," Andrew says quickly, looking up and meeting Sherlock's steady eyes. "No, Papa, I didn't -- I don't -- what I said was stupid."

Sherlock arches a brow. "A fact no one will contest."

"I was just so _angry_ ," Andrew explodes, and scrapes his curls out of his face. "Like it was some huge secret. That's what it feels like -- you were keeping this from me and I wanted to know why."

"Not keeping it from you," John says, frowning. He squeezes Andrew's neck gently, gives it a little shake. "It's a hard time for us to talk about."

Andrew frowns sharply at the tabletop. "Everything you told me, about Aunt Harriet, about how you got me -- it's all true, right?"

John looks at Andrew, bewildered, while Sherlock still just seems annoyed. “Of course,” John says. “We’ve never lied to you about any of that -- or in general, come to it.”

Andrew glances up at his father, who has been largely absent from this conversation. He hardly ever yelled at Andrew, because Andrew was hardly ever stupid enough to get in that kind of trouble. Lucy was always the one pushing buttons and being difficult, trying to see how far she could go before Papa rescinded pretty much every privilege except the right to breath. Perhaps Andrew is just the odd man out though; the things Monica and Kaden try to get away with these days is enough to make him thoroughly grateful he’s not living at home.

“There aren’t any entries for the two years you were gone,” he ventures.

Papa gives him an assessing look. “What do you think you’ll gain by reading something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew mumbles, feeling foolish. “I’d just like to know from you two, instead of guessing.” Papa and Uncle Mycroft are the only people who could ever keep up with Andrew, even if neither of them really appreciate the work he’s doing. And though Dad may not always understand what he was talking about, he understood _Andrew_. It had taken moving out on his own for Andrew to really get that, how well they knew him, how completely they spoiled him. Cambridge is full of trust fund babies and the obscenely brilliant who have to constantly prove themselves worthy of their scholarships; after the first three days on campus Andrew started deliberately spending all his time with the latter. He had something to prove as well, even if it was mostly to himself.

He’d spent the last year becoming obsessed with various theories of data extraction, arguing with the lecturers on how best to generate useful information from complex datasheets despite the fact that he’s only nineteen and it was work generally reserved for the postdoctoral fellows. He’d come home wanting nothing more than the chance to explain it to his father, perhaps get that flash of approval in his eyes as Andrew directed his work towards something on _his_ level, something _‘useful’_. Instead he’d gotten wrapped up in the same niggling doubts he’d had for years, since he started searching for the real reason his parents were so cautious in talking about his infancy and the time before his birth. He’d had no idea what he was going to find.

His parents were insane. They chased after madmen and almost never came out unscathed, nearly died for each other a hundred times before Andrew was even born, kept even stranger hours before they had kids than they do now; Papa somehow managed to eat even less, which doesn’t seem humanly possible. Andrew has no idea how the people in those stories could be parents to one child, let alone four.

But then again, the people in those stories don’t seem like his dad and papa, and he’s not sure he likes them very much. His father is colder, even more remote; his dad is mostly there to shoot guns and run errands. He likes his parents as they are, as they are right now, spending hours explaining to him things he doesn’t technically even have a right to know.

Dad’s notes are strange, meticulous and yet often borderline melodramatic, sensationalized. Andrew had thought this was just his opinion until he came across an entry with Papa’s notes scrawled on the side, decrying the whole retelling as overly-emotional nonsense that ruined the scientific achievement of his work. Dad’s response had been to write the following entry in the most horrible, embarrassing purple prose Andrew has ever seen, and from what he can tell at that point the matter was dropped.

But most of the notes are this strange crossbreed, written like little mystery novels where his dad has left out key pieces of information, revealing them only in the story’s climax, the dénouement. Andrew found himself engrossed for hours, has stacks of more journals to read in his room, twenty years of success and failure.

“Finish what you have and then we’ll talk,” Papa says, which is much more conciliatory than Andrew was expecting.

“I wish you had told us more about what you did over the years,” Andrew says. He’s not complaining, and they don’t take it as such, though Papa’s eyes get a little darker, slightly narrowed.

“We didn’t want to scare you,” Dad says.

Andrew shrugs and half-smiles before he can help it. “That was going to happen no matter what.” He blows out a breath. “You guys are _nuts_.”

Dad lets out a startled laugh, and when he glances up Andrew sees Papa fighting a smile too. “Your siblings prefer the term ‘freaks’,” Papa says.

“That too,” Andrew says. “By the way, there was a case back in twenty-fifteen, out in Hertfordshire, to do with stolen investment funds, and it ended with you finding the money but not perpetrator -- did you ever figure out it was the chauffeur?” His parents are staring at him like he’s no longer speaking any language they understand, so he guesses not. “It had to be, what with--”

“The frost on the windowpane, _of course_.” Papa says, jumping up and startling Dad, who is looking between the two of them in bewilderment. “ _Brilliant_ , Andrew, just brilliant.” Papa says, whirling out of the room, and Andrew tries not to let the smile on his face get too ridiculous.


End file.
